THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN.

It is flooding the forest-trees richly with bloom,
And flinging gold showers in the lap of the broom!
I have heard the lark warble his hymn in the sky,
I have seen the dew-tear in the meek daisy's eye;
I have scented the breath of the fresh opened flowers,
I have plucked a rich garland from hawthorn bowers;
My footsteps have been where the violet sleeps,
And where arches of eglantine hang from the steeps ;
I have startled the linnet from thickets of shade,
And roused the fleet stag as he basked in the glade ;
And my spirit is blithe—as a rivulet clear,

For the summer, the golden crowned summer, is here!

51

HOUSMAN.

THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN.

The midges dance aboon the burn,

The dews begin to fa',

The pairtricks down the rushy holm,

Set up their e'ening ca',

Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang,

Rings through the briery shaw,

While flitting, gay, the swallows play

Around the castle wa'.

52

THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN.

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky,
The mavis mends her lay,

The redbreast pours his sweetest strains,
To charm the ling'ring day;
While weary yeldrins seem to wail
Their little nestlings torn,

The merry wren, frae den to den,
Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves,
The foxglove shuts its bell,
The honeysuckle and the birk
Spread fragrance through the dell.
Let others crowd the giddy court
Of mirth and revelry,

The simple joys that nature yields
Are dearer far to me.

TANNAHILL.

There never did, and never will exist, anything permanently noble and excellent in a character which is a stranger to the exercise of resolute self denial.

BLOWING BUBBLES.

BLOWING BUBBLES.

Half our sorrows, half our troubles,
Making head and heart to ache,
Are the fruit of blowing bubbles,
Bright to view, but quick to break.

All have played the child imbecile,
Breathing hard to swell the sides

Of a shining fluid vessel,

Frailer than the air it rides.

From the infant's cradle rising,
All the bubble mania show;
Oft our richest wealth comprising
In the bubbles that we blow.

Brilliant, buoyant, upward going,

Pleased we mark them in their flight,

Every hue of Iris showing,

As they glance along the light.

Little castles, high and airy,

With their crystal walls so thin, Each presents the wicked fairy, Vanity enthroned within!

54

BLOWING BUBBLES.

But, when two have struck together,
What of either do we find?
Not so much as one gay feather
Flying hope has left behind!
Still, the world are busy blowing
Every one some empty ball;
So the seeds of mischief sowing
Where to burst the bubbles fall.

Nor for self alone to gather,
Is our evil harvest found;
Oft with pipe and cup we rather
Step upon our neighbour's ground.

Thus, amusing one another,

While the glistening playthings rise,
We may doom a friend or brother
To a life of care and sighs.

Do you doubt my simple story?
I can point a thousand ways,
Where this bubble-making glory
Has its darkness hid in rays!

Yet, we'll spare a slight confusion,

Caused the world by giving names;

Since a right to some delusion

Every one from nature claims.

H. F. GOULD.

HYMN TO THE SETTING SUN.

55

HYMN TO THE SETTING SUN.

Slow, slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest,

Thy course of beneficence done;

As glorious go down to the ocean's warm breast,
As when thy bright race was begun.

For all thou hast done,

Since thy rising, O Sun,

Mayst thou by thy Maker be blest.

Thou hast scattered the night from the broad golden way, Thou hast given us thy light through a long happy day. Thou hast roused up the birds, thou hast wakened the flowers,

To chant on thy path, and to perfume the hours.

Then slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest,
And rise again beautiful, blessing, and blest.

Slow, slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest,
Yet pause but a moment to shed

One warm look of love on the earth's dewy breast,
Ere the starred curtain fall round thy bed,
And to promise the time,

When awaking sublime,

Thou shalt rush all refreshed from thy rest.